


Whipping Boy

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Riding Crop, Riding crop penetration, Rimming, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John hit him, Sherlock got hard. What a surprise. Of course it'd been an accident, of course John had apologized profusely, and of course that had been the end of that. Except it hadn't, god no. (Very consensual riding crop violence.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After John hit him, Sherlock got hard.

What a surprise.

Of course it'd been an accident, of course John had apologized profusely, and of course that had been the end of that.

Except it hadn't, god no.

Lying in bed that night, wide awake while his sweetheart slept, Sherlock's brain had lit up like a damned supernova. Why had it felt good, no…no, not good, not good at all but cock-hardeningly perfect when John's hand had struck the back of his mouth hard enough that teeth cut flesh?

Burning through postulates, cataloging sensations, _experimenting_ for god's sake—scratching, pinching, biting himself there in the midnight light—Sherlock had been desperate to unravel this very new, very wonderful mystery.

And he did. Of course he did. He's Sherlock fucking Holmes.

In that midnight light, silent as you please, Sherlock learned that it was the pain _after_ that he'd relished. As the blood pearled and his lip ached it had been the delicious sense of his _senses_ that had stirred him. The sensation that his entire body was roused, not just has brain, that he was _physical,_ present, alive right there _with_ John, not ahead of him, beyond him, not alone.

Yes, that was it: The pain had driven Sherlock out of his _mind,_ his intellect, driven him out _—_ and right into John.

And oh god he wanted to do it again.

* * *

As they crawled into bed that next night he'd tried telling John what he'd learned, but when he opened his mouth to say, "Please John, will you hurt me again?" he'd gone so nervous—they've been together barely a month, just one—that nothing came out. Then John had curled warm against him and gone to dreams, leaving Sherlock staring at shadows, looking for words that weren't there.

And now, alone in sitting room dark at two a.m., Sherlock slid down into the sofa, a rag doll, boneless, and again he experimented because that's what Sherlocks do. The tools for this silent research: His own body, his own riding crop.

Staring at nothing much he ran the crop across his cheek in a long slow stroke, as if he were a violin and it was his bow. A patient musician, Sherlock took his time, playing softly the tender skin of cheek, jaw, neck, until the pale flesh was sensitized, singing.

_Like this John…it could start like this. Do you see?_

He slowed the tempo of this brand new song, made it a darker thing when he opened his mouth, slid the flat leather of the crop's tip along his tongue, then bit hard, arching his neck, tugging. He growled, shook his shaggy head, thought of John and bit harder.

_Racing, pounding, flying…how many lyrical words are there for the music of a thrumming heart, John?_

Growing still Sherlock placed the crop across his chest, then both hands over it and counted those heart beats— _one-two-one-two-one-two—_ fast, fast, so fast he was dizzy with it. After awhile he started keeping time with a faint whisper. "JohnJohnJohnJohn," and felt his heart slow, which made him laugh, the sound deep in his chest.

_Where are you my darling, my soldier, my love?_

In the big wide world Sherlock was rarely fanciful, so it surprised even him how positively lavish his brain could be when he thought about his lover, how tender, how damned _sweet._

Stretching both arms out to his sides, the whip softly striking the Union Jack pillow at the far end of the sofa, Sherlock stared down at his bare chest, watched his heart tick-hum-hammer beneath skin.

_Never did know how much better everything could be with love. Didn't see that coming Johnny, no I didn't._

As if moving on its own the riding crop returned, inched across Sherlock's chest in one smooth achingly slow stroke. It rasped over a hard nipple, ticked the xylophone of his ribs, strummed his belly, then in sudden staccato swipes, played over his cock.

_Oh John, come play your instrument, tune me, make me sing._

There in the blue shadow Sherlock closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats again and told himself that when he reached one hundred he'd go upstairs and crawl into bed and ask the healer to heal him. "John, sweet beautiful John, please will you do this for me, please hurt me until I don't have to think any more?"

_One hundred and one, one hundred and two, one hundred and three…_

Yet as the night ticked on he couldn't make himself rise. Couldn't lift his heavy body and trip it through the gloom, couldn't brave rejection, not just yet. Because there would be rejection, he knew that. John ministers, makes well. He sets, soothes, salves he doesn't strike white flesh so hard it raises up red, angry, and maybe…maybe a little bloody.

_Two hundred fifteen, two hundred sixteen…_

No. John would say no and so Sherlock had to say yes and so that's why in the dark of two a.m. he tried it himself. He swung the crop fast across his palm, hard enough to make him bark out a short grunt of pain that was…that was…that was only pain.

_Three hundred forty two, three hundred forty three…_

The second time it was with a good sharp swing to the side of his calf and that hurt much more, so badly that sweat beaded across his forehead, but the pain was wrong, so god damn wrong he threw the crop across the room with a hiss.

_Four hundred…four hundred…four hundred…_

He stood, his leg throbbing, and for a moment he growled down at the magazines on the coffee table, thought about throwing them too, but instead he took the Dutch courage his anger gave him and let it push him toward the bedroom, toward their bed— _his bed, my bed, our bed, yours and mine Johnny, yours and mine—_ and he looked down at his sleeping lover and bit savagely at his still-swollen lip until it hurt, and then he ran the back of his thumb nail along his wounded palm until _that_ hurt, and the pain didn't feel good, it made him feel stupid and tired, and somehow that made him braver still and so he crawled into bed beside John and pressed against him and whispered desperately, "Please please please please please."

John's breathing hitched, he murmured something sleepy and against his ear Sherlock whispered, "Please. Do it again."

Sherlock's timing was exquisite, John's dream had only just begun and it would have been a bad one. Neither would ever know that really, but some part of John's body was already on alert, high on adrenaline, ready for something, very ready.

The good doctor rolled over, rested the back of his hand against Sherlock's cheek, said with eyes still closed, "Hey, what's up?"

Sherlock finally stopped counting, pressed lips against the back of John's hand. "I want you to do it again. Make me bleed. Please John, please…please…please…please…"

Chest rising and falling fast Sherlock faltered. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was Sherlock damned Holmes for god's sake, he was rude, demanding, arrogant, he plowed _over_ obstacles, he didn't curl his naked body against them, he didn't beg or press his lips to their warm neck and breathe deep and feel an ache of joy, of longing, of _belonging._

One month. Only one month of this man in his bed and his heart and already Sherlock was gone, so far gone. Weak where before he'd been strong, impossibly strong where before he'd been weak, he didn't have words yet for how much he loved this beautiful creature, for how terribly good it was to have his old life in ruins at his feet.

John's eyes were wide now and staring as Sherlock's teeth worried the plump swell of his own lip. John pressed the tip of one finger there. "Stop. You'll make it scar."

Sherlock stopped.

"Look at me."

Sherlock did.

"Tell me."

Sherlock did and by doing those things…stopping…looking…telling…he'd already convinced the good doctor before he'd even spoken the first word.

Because yes John knew what was being asked, and really all John needed to know was that Sherlock knew there were limits. That they would go so far and no further, that stop meant stop, that no meant nothing more and nothing less than _I will not._

Sherlock pressed the palm of John's hand to the side of his own head. "In here, this is where I live, all the time, forever. I locked myself in here a long time ago and until you I didn't want a key, I didn't want my freedom, I didn't _care_ what was outside. Outside was dull, but in here—" Sherlock leaned his head hard into John's hand, "—in here there was a riot raging all the time and it was never boring, never dull, it never let me think or feel or understand what I was missing and then and then—"

Sherlock gusted out a sigh and the air smelled…soft? quiet? sweet?

"—and then there was you."

Suddenly Sherlock fell against his pillow, bones and joints achy, as if he'd run hard. He clapped his mouth shut and frowned into the dark and he might have actually been _this_ close to saying, "Never mind. Forget it. I've got an experiment to finish," but he didn't get a chance to turn into an idiot, no, John didn't let him.

"I know I'm smaller than you, but you do know I'm strong, don't you? I'm so much stronger than you think I am."

Honestly, seriously, truly, absolutely, completely, utterly and totally Sherlock god damned loved it when John said stuff he just didn't understand.

"What? _What?"_

"I could hurt you in ways you don't expect. I could scare you." John's hand curled around Sherlock's gently. "Do you understand that? That I could make you fear me? And that if I did it would pretty much kill me?"

The hardest part of all of this, this _loving_ lark, was that Sherlock forgot again and again that there were two hearts involved, that he wasn't the only one who needed or longed or ached.

"I seldom get to talk to the criminals I help find, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I have time alone with them and do you know what they often do, without any prompting at all? They justify. Absolve themselves. They make excuses."

Sherlock surrounded John's hands with both of his. "I don't think you even know how." Sherlock closed his eyes. "There's a part of you that's so much like me, John. Maybe it's one of the reasons we knew, that first hour, that first minute, knew we'd work. Let's walk this highwire and see if we keep our balance. If we fall, I'll be your safety net and you can be mine."

John smiled a little in the dark. "When did you get so damned lyrical, my sweet?" His smile faded quickly. "There'll be rules, and every last one of them will be mine. Do you understand?"

Without hesitation Sherlock pressed both of John's palms to his own cheeks, nodded.

"All right then. When you say 'hurt me'—tell me how."

_A million years I wrote my first Sherlock fic[Black and Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/748943/chapters/1397271) about John, Sherlock, and the riding crop. The trio had been together awhile in that story. This is the prequel (which I actually wrote a year after "Black and Blue") where we find out how it started. More to come. As with that first story you couldn't stop me here if you paid me cold, hard cash._


	2. Chapter 2

"Why, John?

Oh dear god Sherlock didn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

_Shut up, Sherlock, shut up!_

But Sherlock didn't shut up.

"Yes, rules, I understand that. But why would you do this, why would you even start when I know you don't want to?"

Sherlock keeps learning that he's more than he thinks he is damn it, he's _better_ and do you have any idea how infuriating that is?

Unable to look John in the eyes, Sherlock instead petted John's hand and told it, "Because you shouldn't. Not if…don't let me…I…shouldn't have…"

If you'll notice, John was staying mute. As in sweetly silent. As in—

"John? You're doing that thing again, aren't you?"

 _That thing_ wasn't much of anything really, it was just silence. Listening. Letting Sherlock work it out—whatever _it_ was—with that big brain of his.

You have to _make_ him work, you know. Because Sherlock? Most of the time he's a lazy man.

Deducing? That's _easy._ It takes little more effort than breathing for Sherlock Holmes to see, catalog, extrapolate, explain. You can admire the skill, but most of the time the man isn't even breaking a sweat.

But this? Being human, being _humane?_ That takes great effort, much thought, and always a lot of words. So John makes sure Sherlock takes the effort, has the thoughts, and speaks the words.

Because that's the part John needs. _Be who I know you are, who I know you can be. And that fire you have blazing inside? Open that mouth and turn that heat on me._

"It's called listening, love, and yeah s'what I'm doing."

Sherlock's gaze flicked up to John's sleepy eyes. "Tomorrow," the great man whispered, trying to be good. "We'll talk tomorrow."

John huffed out a soft laugh. "It's already tomorrow, sweetheart. And you've screwed up your courage to talk to me _now."_

Sherlock sees, he's not used to being seen. Especially not when he's vulnerable. Brows drawing into a frown, a flicker of the old man tried to surface again, but John sighed deeply and once.

In response Sherlock gathered John close by wrapping a leg over the doctor's legs, taking smaller hands into his long ones. And then again Sherlock talked to those hands.

"Tell you how. Tell you how. John, I don't know. I won't know until you do it. I tried to do it myself—tried…whipping…myself but it…I…"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, scowled at their hands as if cupped inside the four of them lay the words he needed.

"When you did it…when you…accidentally—" Sherlock's teeth snagged his lower lip, his breathing ramped up, he kind of smiled. "—when you hit me—" His eyes fluttered closed. "—it hurt, of course it did—" His leg tightened over John's thighs. "—but right after, just a second later, it—" His long body started trembling. "—it was like you'd touched me—" He paused, on the precipice of that memory. "—everywhere—" He lowered his hands, took John's with them, until there was a four-handed party between the detective's thighs. "—but here, especially here. God John, it made me so hard."

Sherlock rubbed his cheek into his pillow, still shy, still not looking. "I didn't brush my teeth after, I went and, uh, wanked in the loo."

As Sherlock made his confession John tugged a hand free, placed it over Sherlock's heart so he could feel what he could see: The fast staccato beat of need.

_If just talking about it makes your body do this…_

"How do you know it was the pain? Why couldn't it have been my apology? Or the fact that I cried?"

Sherlock smiled, trapped John's hand against his chest. "Because you're always apologizing, and all it ever does is make me more cross with you."

John laughed, but Sherlock's grin washed away, "And I've seen you cry and all it does is break my heart."

That heart, that heart, that heart. God damn it life was much easier when he could pretend he didn't have one and better still when he could pretend he didn't care what he did to another's.

"I know I shouldn't—"

"Stop."

Sherlock stopped.

Sure, yes, John's teaching Sherlock to be a little bit more like everyone else, to hold his tongue when necessary, to offer a kind word when needed. What John never wants Sherlock to learn is shame.

"What if I want to, my love? In your midnight brainstorming did you ever think of that?"

Both of Sherlock's hands clenched around John's and he leaned in close, lips pressed against knuckles and asked that hand, "Do you?"

John talked into damp curls, realized Sherlock was actually sweating. "You're lying in bed mostly motionless, you're barely more than whispering, and yet your heart's hammering as if you've run the length of Baker Street. This…is doing something to you Sherlock, and that's almost enough for me."

"Almost."

"It's enough to start with. Just like you, I don't really know. I won't until we do it."

Sherlock let his teeth scrape over the back of John's hand. "Tell me what we'll do, John."

Turn-about is fair play. Sherlock's much better at listening than people give him credit for and he's especially good at listening to John. But you can't listen unless someone's talking so sometimes Sherlock gets John talking. "If this was for you, what would you want to do?"

John's been a doctor for a bit over a decade. In that time he's broken bones so that he could reset them. He's cut open a ragged scar so that he could make it smaller. He's fed people a tiny bit of poison so that they would vomit up one that was even worse.

Which is to say, John's hurt people. Doctors do. Sometimes you cut to cure. And sometimes you do what your lover asks because a small part of you wonders if he would ask someone else if you say no.

Yet that wasn't it really. Sure, a small part of John needs to say yes so that no one else ever could. But there was a bigger part of him that would say yes to this, to so many things Sherlock asks, because he wanted to stand in a raging storm and be drenched; he wanted to take hold of lightning and feel electrified. Sometimes John wanted to go where Sherlock lead simply because those places…contained the tempest that was Sherlock.

And sometimes? Sometimes John discovered that those places—be they dark or light—well he not only wanted to be there, he _reveled_ in it.

"Make you beg."

Now it was John's turn to look down, away.

Sometimes, when people see the good doctor they presume things. They think they know who and what he simply because he's small. Well John's got his own preconceived notions about John, too. And wanting to hear Sherlock plead, well John Watson's always thought he was a bigger man than that. Isn't he? _Isn't he?_

Nope.

"I'd want to hear you plead." Just as Sherlock did before, John worried a knuckle on his lover's hand, only his nerves showed in two stroking thumbs instead of nibbling teeth. Then he startled them both with a short, high laugh. "Oh, and I know why, god I know why."

John met his lover's eyes in the dark, was silent for long seconds staring at the tiny bright discs of reflected light in those light eyes. "Because I want to hear what you'll say. What goes on in your head sometimes I can't even imagine but if I ask just the right questions I don't have to, I can open you up and the words come tumbling out."

John's heart was beating as fast as his lover's. "I want to make you beg because I want to hear what you'll say."

Sherlock growled and it sounded like distant thunder, like a storm gathering. "Then hurt me John, hurt me hurt me hurt me and oh my love you won't be able to shut me up."

* * *

They didn't start that night.

It was three in the morning with a hectic day coming, so now wasn't the time for riding crops and revelations. For Sherlock now was for familiar-unfamiliar gratitude. Now was for touching John's quiet mouth, for kissing his chin and neck and chest.

Sliding his sweat-slick body on top of his lover, now was for bottoming from the top, for giving instead of getting, it was for finding pleasure by taking none for himself. It was time for opening John's legs and pressing kisses before doing more—a whole lot more and slowly—and then it was time for feeling an unraveling in his chest when John groaned-sighed-moaned in relief.

They fell asleep then, Sherlock still hard where it didn't really matter, but softer, weaker, stronger, much stronger, where it did.

_The recipe for this story calls for a riding crop, sex (much more overt next chapter!), and lashings (oh, look, pun) of angst and humor in equal measure. This should result in something tasty, don't you think?_


	3. Chapter 3

Life conspired against John, Sherlock, and the riding crop for the next five days. Or maybe, the tricksy little thing, it conspired _with._

An old case had both men in court by day, a new one at the Yard much of the night. For nearly a week bed meant barely tugging off clothes before falling down to dreams.

Here's the tricky part: There's a good deal of waiting when you may or may not be called on as witnesses. So John and Sherlock had a lot of coffee, a lot of tea, and a lot of time in the courthouse cafeteria.

"No ropes or restraints," John murmured that first day, blowing carefully over his fourth cup of coffee.

Sherlock's brain was where Sherlock's brain often is, in another world. "What?"

John said softly, "Tying you up: No."

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, all right. Why?"

John half-smiled. "You tell me."

The part of his brain devoted to sex—before John _no_ part of Sherlock's brain had been devoted to sex; now he was stunned by just how much of his most valuable real estate had given itself up to the topic—immediately took over every other part of his grey matter. "Because you want me free to move. Move toward. Move away."

There was definitely something about too much caffeine that felt a little like being drunk. John giggled. "Yes, that's it. That's it exactly."

* * *

The next day John had the cafeteria's pie. He didn't usually have pie for breakfast, but he didn't usually talk about exactly how he would go about beating his lover, either. Life throws you curve balls. Sometimes you throw a few back. Sometimes they take the form of pie.

"No safewords, tap codes, whatever. Everything's straight-forward," John said, chasing a blueberry with his fork. "Stop means stop. No means no. Ouch mother-fucking damn-well means ouch."

Two women at the next table glanced at John. Sherlock stole a blueberry. "Yes."

* * *

"You tell me where to strike. I decide how hard," John said the day after, over the clatter of distant flatware.

Sherlock finished over-sugaring his tea. "Yes."

* * *

Today John was not eating pie. He was watching Sherlock eat pie. His second piece. He had actually sprinkled sugar on it. Sometimes John despairs.

"Words. As many words as you can muster. I want to know everything you're thinking, feeling, wanting, while it happens."

Sherlock licked his lips. The gesture had nothing at all to do with pie. "Oh god yes."

* * *

The cafeteria coffee was so much better than it had any right to be. John was on his fifth cup. It was finally Friday. Everything was good. "The first time we do this, _you_ will hit _me."_

Sherlock dropped the sugar packet he was holding. It splashed into his teacup. He watched it until it sunk. Depending on how you measured it that took twenty-four seconds or forty-one heart beats. "No."

John dipped his spoon into Sherlock's tea, fished out the soggy packet. He then laid the spoon carefully along the saucer beneath his lover's cup. He got up. He left.

* * *

John opened his eyes, glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight and he'd fallen asleep in front of the telly. He'd meant to.

The court case was done. The case for the Yard was almost done. Some mystery experiment in the kitchen was so done it had burned. And John? Even once they'd got home he hadn't quite been done, not done being angry.

He was now. Sliding up in the overstuffed chair, stretching out the kinks in his back, he closed his eyes and listened to the flat. It hummed with refrigerator noise, sighed with gusts of rain on dusty windows, buzzed with a brace of experiment-related flies John was still trying to catch (yes, yes, he catches and releases; sue him). What the flat did not hum-sigh-buzz with was consulting detective.

Good.

Tomorrow, maybe the next day, they'd talk about it. John would explain his reasons. They'd deal or they wouldn't. Because John had meant what he said. If he was going to do this, the rules had to be his. There was no other way.

* * *

John tiptoed into the bedroom though he didn't have to. Sherlock was not a light sleeper, and if they've fought—had they? John wasn't sure if silence constituted an argument—the great bloody infant always slept like the dead. High emotion wearied the man. Hell, it didn't do John any good either.

Still, the good doctor tiptoed and then standing beside the bed he stopped and he stared awhile.

He couldn't see much, just a Sherlock-shaped lump, the room full of night shadow and street light that cast everything in shades of black and blue.

 _How appropriate,_ he thought, holding his breath briefly until he could hear Sherlock's.

John did that a lot. You wouldn't think a doctor would actually worry about something so ridiculous— _is he breathing?—_ but John did, with alarming frequency. He wasn't sure if it was because Sherlock is so singular that for all John knew the man might simply just _stop_ one day, the strange fire that animates him suddenly extinguished, or if it was because John had never cared this deeply this quickly for anyone, and so his irrational/amazing/singular love gave rise to irrational/amazing/singular fears.

_This deeply, this quickly._

That still amazed him. It's been one month. One month. _One month._ How could it be no time at all and yet feel like forever? Thirteen weeks ago he'd never heard the words Sherlock Holmes. How was that possible? As far as John's heart knew he'd always known this man. He'd touched that pale skin forever. Waited patiently for the slow and still-shy touches in return. And he's stood in black and blue night shadow and listened for slow and steady breathing every night of his life.

 _Wake up,_ thought the good doctor, _I need to tell you why, Sherlock. I need to know you understand…_

But John didn't wake up his insomniac (Sherlock's bluster that he doesn't need sleep is just that; John knows the symptoms of chronic insomnia when he sees them). Instead he shivered a little with the midnight chill and crawled into bed beside his young love, ready to get close, get warm, go to dreams. He was just draping an arm over Sherlock's bare waist when his little insomniac turned, eyes bright in the half-light.

John smiled, kissed the back of Sherlock's hand when it drifted up to brush his face. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." Fingers twined with fingers. "You okay?"

Gentle as the pale light through sheer curtains, came the soft reply. "Yes, John."

John trailed more kisses along the back of one long, faintly-scarred hand. No one else knew this Sherlock. No other man alive had heard this man speak this way. Just as well. No one knew this John, either. "Did you sleep a little, my love?"

"Yes, John."

Sherlock sighed; John echoed him. "Need to talk?"

"Yes, John."

The good doctor squinted a little, belatedly detecting a trend. "Want to march through Hyde Park with me in our altogether?"

Sherlock's grin flashed brief and bright in the shadows. "Yes, John."

John wasn't sure if this was a game or an apology, but he'd accept either. "And return all of Lestrade's stolen IDs?"

The pause was so brief as to be virtually undetectable. Virtually. "Yes, John."

"And buy the milk for the rest of the year."

A slightly more noticeable pause. "Yes, John."

"And love me forever?"

The pause seemed long, but it was only a second, just a second so that Sherlock could draw a fast breath and whisper with passion and fire and heart, _"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes John."_

Now it was John's turn to pause a little. Well, a little longer than a little. Then he murmured, "Do you understand why, my love? Why I asked what I did?"

"Yes, John."

The good doctor ran the back of his hand along Sherlock's cheek. "Why?"

Sherlock sighed, and yes, it had the shaky timbre of a child. "Because you want me to know what I'm asking of you. To understand what this will cost you. How hard it's going to be." Sherlock lifted John's broad, strong hand with both his own. "You want me to know that here there be dragons."

Who the hell understands the human heart? Not John Watson. _Certainly_ not John Watson. He had no clue at all why those few dozen words made him suddenly, sweetly ache with the need to tug Sherlock close, and not gently but fiercely, with pride, with hunger.

And so he did.

He fisted his hand in Sherlock's hair until he was pulling, then tugged his new lover close until their mouths met.

The little whimper of desire and the small whine of need? Both from John. The growl that followed? Also John. The bite, the pull, the small whisper of _please…_

"John," Sherlock breathed, letting himself be tugged up, letting his body be placed, letting his hips be captured between strong bare thighs. Surrounding John's head with his arms Sherlock was kissed and Sherlock kissed, and John said, "Yes, yes, yes," then another grin flashing bright, "no, no, no."

Sherlock stopped kissing, so John did, too. Sherlock blinked down at his lover, so John blinked up. Sherlock said, "What now?" and John laughed, whispered, "Yes, here there be dragons, my love."

Sherlock brushed John's hair from his forehead, as if he could peer into his lover's brain. Then Sherlock said something he almost never says. "I don't understand."

John talked fast, so that he wouldn't think about what he was saying, this wasn't about thinking, it was about feeling. "And no you're wrong. I want this now, Sherlock. It scares me that I want it. We've been talking about it for a week and I'm getting impatient. I want to hold that riding crop and _see what happens._ If you'd told me a few months ago I'd say that I'd have laughed at you and told you you don't know me. Apparently it's me who doesn't know me." John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist hard and tight, grinding cock against cock.

"Yeah, at first I needed you to understand what you were asking. But now I _want_ to do this and so it's me that needs to understand, understand how much this is going to hurt you."

Sherlock said nothing and so John kept talking, babbling, a little breathy, nervous. "Are you okay? I mean—I didn't mean that I—"

"Hush, John."

John hushed.

"I know, John."

John said nothing.

_"Now, John."_

John tugged in a sharp breath.

Then Sherlock took it away with a fast bite at his lover's neck. John closed his eyes, arched his back…and suddenly there was nothing there, Sherlock was gone.

But only briefly, just long enough to pick up the riding crop from the floor beside the bed.

"Open your eyes, John."

Suddenly compliant as a kitten—they take turns at that, have you noticed?—John opened his eyes in time to watch Sherlock rise and sit astride his hips, holding the crop at each end. "Open your mouth, John."

John was suddenly very, very aware of his heart fucking _galloping_ in his chest. He's done things during sex, has John Watson, some pretty interesting things. With other lovers there's been ropes, cuffs, bruises, blindfolds. He's watched and been watched, he's had sex with more than one, sex on a train, in a plane, on the beach. He's pretty much tried it most ways he's cared to and some ways he never wants to try again, but he's never had sex with someone like Sherlock, someone who _doesn't yet know_ where his limits are—and makes John feel as if he's not sure where _his_ might be either.

John's heart thrummed, raced, flew because he was pretty sure he was at that moment willing to do almost anything.

No. Not almost.

_Anything._

John opened his mouth, arched his neck, and groaned as if already coming. The sound shot through Sherlock so hard and fierce his teeth actually clicked together.

This wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last that John took something between them and twisted it in the best way possible. Turning fear into need, uncertainty to bravery, weakness to strength. Sherlock could barely remember the nerves of last week, instead he looked down at John and as if it were a benediction he pressed that riding crop between his lover's teeth, arching it gently and just enough that it didn't hurt but it held John down against the bed. Hard.

Then Sherlock bent his long body low and kissed John's open mouth. And licked it. And bit at it. And sighed into it. And damn well fucked it with his tongue and maybe—hell, not maybe, _definitely—_ started to get off on just that, rocking his hips, rubbing hard-on against hard-on, then nipping, biting, licking at the crop _inside_ John's mouth and then getting off on _that,_ and honestly Sherlock can always, always get into these sensory feedback loops, almost overwhelmed, and so the good doctor brought him back to himself with the simple act of placing both of his own hands over Sherlock's.

Sherlock stilled, huffed softly into John's mouth, a sort of laugh and grunt. Belatedly he remembered that there was supposed to be words, that that was his promise.

So the still man became even more still, held his breath briefly until he felt his heart slow and his mind clear. Mouth pressed softly to mouth he said, "I never knew just the act of you wanting something could make me want it so hard that I'm…hard." Sherlock kissed his lover again, then ran the tip of his tongue over John's lower lip, a rare delicacy to savor slowly.

"You want it, so I want it," Sherlock lifted his hips off John, "you want it, so I want it," lowered them just enough for the barest pressure, "you want it you want it you want it…"

They barely touched from chest to knees, they hardly touched where both of them wanted touch the most. Hands pressed hard over Sherlock's, John struggled under him, biting at the crop. Then, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's waist again he pulled him down and Sherlock let him.

He let John grind against him until the smaller man was grunting with each thrust, then panting. And Sherlock watched that often serious face transform, watched John's eyes fill with greed and a hungry fire, watched that beautiful mouth grin feral and wide around the crop, felt John's nails dig into the backs of his hands and for a moment Sherlock was following, pumping his hips, ready to let John—well anything. Then Sherlock stopped letting him.

He raised himself to elbows and knees, nibbled at John's trapped mouth again, murmured, "No, not yet, not yet."

John opened eyes he didn't remember closing, grunted and bit that god damn crop so hard his jaw ached.

"Time to do it, John. To…" Sherlock faltered but for just a moment. Oh…that's a lie. It was many moments, enough so that his heart was pounding and maybe he felt a little sick. But Sherlock said it anyway, he promised. "Time for me to…to hurt you John."

Sherlock held his breath, could feel himself shaking. Another second ticked by, then two, then three.

Then beneath him John started pumping his hips again, slowly, slowly. Then the good doctor laughed, a deep, dark sound at the back of his throat.

_Chapter four is wall-to-wall sex. It's already written. So, you know, payoff has been sighted and targeted. So, er, please leave a comment today. Part four will publish tomorrow or Monday. Much thanks to bulleteyes whose thoughts about John inspired some of the words in this chapter. You are so right my dear: Here be dragons._


	4. Chapter 4

John has killed—in battle and out—more than once.

John has been willing to die—in battle or out—for others times past counting.

John Watson is not without a certain—shall we say— _very dark side._

Sherlock understands the dark. Since he was a boy he's walked through it literally, roaming London streets seeking something he couldn't name. And he's walked through the much more fearful dark inside, the kind the sun never lights.

So Sherlock knew where John walked now, and yet there was a part of him that urgently wanted to turn on all the lights in that flat and open John's eyes to brightness, there was a part of him that wanted to unsay everything said this last week.

That part of Sherlock had frantic little hummingbird wings, but that part of him was damned small compared to the great big hungry creature he felt fluttering in his chest now. The one that pressed on the crop just a tiny bit harder and relished the feel of John's legs as they tried to wrap around hips they could no longer easily grasp.

"Beautiful, so beautiful, so much John, so much _you_ I can't see straight." Sherlock heard himself, thought maybe he sounded like an idiot, didn't care. Fuck it, he was going to babble, he was going to do exactly as asked because this man, this aching, needy, breathless man beneath him asked for that and only a lunatic would deny John Watson, and Sherlock may be many things but this particular brand of insane he was not.

"Want to fuck you," Sherlock lowered his hips for a moment, until John shoved up hard and groaned. "Want to be fucked by you, want to bite you, suck on you, feel all of you against all of me…god John, dear god."

Yes, babbling, that's what that was, but it was good, it was very good if John's high-pitched whines were any sign, if the fact that John was now clutching Sherlock's hands—the hands that held the crop in place—so hard his arms were shaking.

"Up."

Then just like that Sherlock was gone. Quick as a plaster torn from a wound he was standing beside the bed, and though John hadn't expected it his mouth had, he'd released the crop instantly.

He blinked up at Sherlock, who stared down at him with wide eyes and then John's gaze slid down Sherlock's body and stopped there, right _there_ where Sherlock was hardest and dripping and John got on hands and knees on that bed and he crawled the small distance toward Sherlock, mouth open, mouth open, mouth open…and then slid lips over that beautiful hot—

_The awful pain breaks apart inside him, turning into one thousand shards of black and white, of adrenaline, fury, blood, heart beats, tears, need, trembling, misery._

Then past the pain came the enraged thought: The risk, the fucking risk of swinging the crop while John's mouth was on him, while John's teeth chattered softly over hard flesh, for an instant everything paled behind the stupidity of that and John started to pull his mouth off Sherlock's cock, ready to rage, ready to—

 _It's worse the second time because John's eyes now briefly track the swing and he knows the crop will strike the side of his other thigh and he does not like the pain, but the_ relief _from the pain, it's like cold rain tempering something hot, it makes the misery bearable but the misery, it still tastes of misery, too much, he doesn't want it, he doesn't like it, he does not like this, it hurts it hurts it—_

"I can't," Sherlock said over the sound John only just realized was himself moaning deeply, badly, so very much not in a good way.

Sherlock dropped the crop on the floor and John's brain flew through a hundred postulates in the time it took his lover to take one step back, and very briefly—through the pain or maybe because of it—John was wonderfully, off-the-scale brilliant and knew that if he didn't do something now, right now, Sherlock would spiral down into something dark and bad, this night would be tainted, the crop would be too, fucking hell, even sex, all of it, might—

"Bite me, now, now, now," John chanted, rising—oh god damn it hurt—to his knees on the bed, "touch me, touch me Sherlock, now, god now."

John reached for his lover, hands hovering in the air, breath coming faster as the pain in his legs bloomed and slotted itself into his consciousness, the heat and throbbing and ache getting a little jumbled with his reblossoming desire, "please, please, Sherlock, please," the good doctor begged, now entering his own little feedback loop where just the sound of his own voice was enough to soothe and so ramp up the need, which made the begging more intense, more desperate, which got him harder, lifted his hands higher, reaching, reaching.

Sherlock stepped forward, between John's arms, yelped in a very, very good way when John's nails scored the skin of his back, then he slid down in John's grasp, on his knees beside the bed and he bit at John's scarred shoulder soft-gentle-careful, then he bit at John's neck the same way, then the other shoulder, John's arm, his forearm, then he nibbled at strong, short fingers, each one in turn, laved them as if here were the angry red wounds, and about then he started humping the side of their bed so prettily he made John forget everything that needed forgetting.

But Sherlock didn't forget, didn't forget his promise, so he sucked and tasted and talked, and said, "Fuck me John, bend me over and fuck me, hard as you can, soft as you can, as long as you can, as long as you want to."

John watched Sherlock's tongue flick between his fingers, looked at the shadows his lashes cast on high cheekbones, and possibly he would have said something, but Sherlock wasn't done.

"I can't do that again, but your hands John, reaching and so still, so…steady…I'm flying apart and you're as still and calm and real and beautiful and—and…"

He was done, there were no more clear thoughts in that brilliant brain, not right then anyway, so this time John talked and then John did a whole hell of a lot more than that.

"It's my turn. I get to try this, too. Can't take that away from me love, no." John grinned and it was that greedy grin of before, that dark, feral smile that contained a lot of teeth and pressing tongue.

John stepped off the bed—it hurt to move; it was going to for awhile—slid round behind Sherlock, went to his knees on the floor behind him, slick flesh sliding down slick flesh, and before he could say anything Sherlock pressed his chest against the bed, lowered his bum so that it was quite nicely John-height, and muttered happily, "Yes John, yes John, yes John— _oh god—_ yes John."

John will talk a good game about appreciating the entire man. He'll take pains to compliment eyes and smile and hands and dozens of other things about a person, but oh fucking hell John is such a god damn arse man—a _Sherlock_ arse man—that he can't _think_ for want of it sometimes.

And sometimes that appreciation is best shown by a sharp bite at the _meat_ of it, the mouth-filling, succulent, plush, elegant, crazy-glorious bodacious _wonder_ of the god damn thing.

"What is this," he crooned, not knowing what he meant, only knowing that there the flesh against his grinning mouth was tender yet solid with muscle, that the man to whom this delicious feature was attached actually despaired of the thing, but John, oh John, sometimes he's pretty sure he could spend days just touching, kissing, fucking this beautiful part of this beautiful man.

In the bedroom Sherlock often wears John's high regard for his body like a perfect coat. He can sometimes feel quite full of himself under John's lusty gaze, and as John nipped, hummed, murmured his praise, Sherlock damn near purred in reply, wriggling that bum in a way so silly and seductive that John laughed, nipped, and praised some more.

"Beautiful," he said, his hands sliding high along Sherlock's back. "Perfect," he whispered, kissing the base of Sherlock's spine, drawing in a deep breath. "You smell of blackberries, my dear," he murmured, knowing Sherlock had again washed up with the shampoo not the soap when he showered before bed.

It was about then—breathing deep again of salty-clean skin—that John realized here, right here, was where he wanted to begin, that this was something he very much wanted to do, and so he let his tongue slide high along the crease of Sherlock's arse…and then down.

Sherlock's anomalously shy about a whole lot of things still, and John expected this to be one of them but he was wrong. The moment the good doctor's hot tongue started south Sherlock spread those long legs of his, canted his hips up, and said, "Yessss."

And Jesus the sound of his desire was ridiculously arousing. John wanted to say, 'Well to hell with this' and start fucking away, but John Watson's never, not once _ever_ been bad in bed and he sure as hell wasn't about to start now.

So despite an ache in his cock that just about made his teeth clench, John took it slow, then slower, nipping at the left side of Sherlock's pliant bum, then letting his tongue swipe languidly over his hole on the way to the other cheek, there and back again so many times and so slowly that Sherlock was pretty sure he was going to pass out from his breathless, "Now, now, now, now…"

Now would be good, John thought, now would be fucking excellent, but instead he continued to tease, tongue poking low, curling under Sherlock's balls—the detective turned out to be ticklish here, jerking briefly away with a surprised laugh—then lapping up, up, up before stopping just short of the spot that right now pretty much made up Sherlock's entire consciousness.

"Jooooohn," the long man crooned, shoving his arse back a little more, rubbing prehensile toes against the sides of John's knees in what he hoped was a come-hither way, "JohnJohnJohn _John."_

John ran his tongue light and fast right up the groove of Sherlock's arse, too fast to satisfy, just enough to tease. "What do you want Sherlock?"

It took a moment for Sherlock to parse the words, then another before he figured out how to make some of his own. He felt suddenly shy—an occupational hazard he did _not_ see coming when he accepted the post as John H. Watson's lover—and didn't want to actually _say_ anything but Sherlock promised and so he did that rare crazy strange thing, he simply opened his mouth and wondered—like John—what would come out of it.

 _"That_ …more…more of your tongue—" Sherlock grunted as if struck when John placed the tip of his tongue _almost right there._ "That that that John, there there there." Yes, Sherlock was the very definition of babbling for Christ's sake but—another press of just the tip, the squirmy _tip—_ Sherlock did not give a damn, at this point he would recite a recipe for trifle in fucking pig Latin if he had to, he didn't care if he sounded like the biggest idiot on a whole _street_ of them if John would just—

 _The pain washes over his hip in a red hot rush, the bad quickly pulled beneath the bright crest of_ after, _of the feeling of his nerves damn well_ singing, _of relief and also of expectation, the relief and pain and tension of_ waiting _for the next strike, the next strike which doesn't come fast enough and so—_

Sherlock opened his mouth to _say_ more but his brain was offline for the duration and so all he could do was grunt and shake his head, his entire body, like a wild thing blissfully trapped, digging fists into the blankets and arching his back and hoping and hoping and hoping—

_Better better better than the first time because he's expecting it now, waiting, and so it hurts more yes, and the pain isn't what he wants but he'll pay that price for the world that opens up a split instant later, when the blood is rushing and the neurons are blazing and so many things happen at once that he's carried along, willing, giddy, amazed._

Sherlock raised his head, drunk with sensation, and though he wasn't touching him Sherlock could feel John behind him like a gathering storm and he wanted to say something because he promised that he would and he was Sherlock damned Holmes, nothing was beyond him, not—

 _John's grunt of effort reaches Sherlock's ears before the crop reaches his body and oh-god-in-heaven that sound, that_ sound _turns the blaze into a fucking supernova, it takes the sharp, quicksilver sting across his arse and burns his entire body with the heat of it. As if John knows this he swings again and strikes not-quite-so-hard this time but groans lavishly and loudly with the exertion anyway._

Words, there are words, in English, that Sherlock used to know, he was sure of it. How they were made he couldn't tell you right now, which was unfortunate because he was supposed to talk wasn't he? There were things he needed to say now and if he just calmed the hell down he would figure out what those words were.

"Oh god."

Apparently those were the words because those are the ones Sherlock said when John's tongue found its way back down, down, down and this time he was there, right there and teasing, swirling for god's sake, moving his tongue over Sherlock's hole in damned _spirals_ and if you can die from a combination of frustration, hope, and arousal then Sherlock was surely done for.

Well, that was a lie of course because what was really going to kill him was what happened next, and that was the riding crop sliding between his legs—where was John getting all these _hands?—_ pushing up along his balls and right up against his erection and his belly.

John's tongue stayed right where it was, squirming hot between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse, while the good doctor began slowly sliding the crop up along Sherlock's cock and balls, a sensation that under any other circumstance would have done not one fucking thing for Sherlock but this was not any other circumstance. This was the crop. Between his legs. Put there held there moved there by John. While John rimmed him.

"Oh my fucking god I am probably going to die," Sherlock said, a floodgate magically opening, letting tumble a giddy cacophony of words, "this, this, this…I can't think John, I don't know what I'm saying John, I think my ears are burning and my balls are maybe up in my kidneys they're pulled so tight." Sherlock paused briefly, hearing his own ridiculous words, mentally shrugged, moved on.

"I can't breathe," said the breathless man, "I think I swallowed my h-h-heart—" Along with the crop that time John's hand pressed up along Sherlock's cock, which was heavy, hot, and quite quite hard between the detective's spread legs.

Sherlock raised his chest off the bed, looked down so that he could see, and what he saw—John's steady, gorgeous, strong, _talented_ hand sliding along his cock along with the crop, and so much precome his lover's hand was _wet_ with it—took the wind out of him so that the good detective fell face first back onto the bed, arched his back with a grand groan and said apropos of god damn everything, "inside me, put that fucking thing _inside me please."_

Well then. 'That fucking thing' is really open to interpretation. If you think about it.

Of course John knew which _thing_ Sherlock meant. And he was happy to oblige, at last shoving his squirmy, slippery tongue into Sherlock's arse and it would be too close to call as to which of them was more lavish with their moan, because moan they both did, long and loud.

Sherlock wanted to be gentle, he really did, but the urge to push back was squeezing the air out of his lungs until he was kind of keening, a low, continuous sound of _want more want more want more._

So John Watson, who can, will, has, and does surprise the great Sherlock Holmes on a daily basis _gave him more._

Gently.

The handle of a riding crop feels absolutely nothing at all like a cock. This, as it turns out, is _extremely fine_ if you're so turned on you literally, actually, and truly can not see straight.

Sherlock opened his mouth to shout or squeal or fucking just _breathe_ but none of that was going to happen any time soon, most especially when John started slowly pumping that crop in and then out of his lover's arse.

"Oh god, Jesus god, fucking hell, fucking, fucking, _fucking_ hell," said one sweary sandy-haired man, spellbound by what he himself was doing to Sherlock's body and what Sherlock's body was doing in response.

And _that_ was shudder. Shake. Meet each push of the lube-slick crop. _That_ was bring his thighs together so that he was, well he was _clenched_ around the crop so hard John could feel it, every thrust more difficult now but better, apparently so much better if that sound coming out of Sherlock was any indication.

And that sound made John think _here there be dragons,_ for some weird split instant because the sound coming out of his pale love's throat, was thick, deep, and sounded like a great beast at last being fed.

John had never wanted Sherlock more than now, right now, but it's a thought he will have times uncountable in the future, which is great, lovely, wonderful, but while you are in the moment _feeling_ that feeling you are so fucking hard you may actually bruise internally, though of course that's not possible, but try telling that to a hormone-addled brain while watching the handle of a riding crop as your lover gets fucked with it.

Good god it was time. Past time. Beyond time.

Keeping rhythm with the crop John slid-slicked his hand up along Sherlock's sweaty back, down along his waist, across his hairless belly, then down, down, down, until his hand fisted around his lover's erection.

And that was the end of that.

Three thrusts after John took hold of him Sherlock came. And came. And came. And fucking hell it seemed to go on forever but maybe that was just because John was so completely wrecked with desire that time just got wobbly and seconds turned elastic and endless and who the hell cared, because Sherlock was still groaning and pumping those hips and then, then, then…

And then he was done.

You would think that a man whose torso is already stretched out on a bed can't fall very far but he can. The moment the last of his orgasm faded Sherlock began listing hard to port, then sliding starboard and John gently but quickly withdrew the crop just in time for his lover to basically fall down like a crash victim on their bedroom floor and say something that made John laugh for a good fifteen minutes.

"If you ever, ever, every get tired of being a doctor John, I have a very good idea on what you can do for a living instead."

 _Jesus in a biscuit where the hell did that come from? Well then. Yes. Speaking of coming, John hasn't. He probably should. Also, this is one wordy mofo of a story, so the final chapter, while including at least one orgasm, will also have some wordy words about the crop and feelings. And stuff. As soon as I get my breath back, okay? Because_ daaaamn.


	5. Chapter 5

"Can I?"

On hands and knees on the threadbare rug beside their bed, John hovered over the prone body of his lover. No part of one man touched any part of the other.

"Please…"

There in the shadowy light, John asked for permission.

"Please, Sherlock?"

Strike that. John Watson begged.

"Oh my love," the good doctor whispered, not touching, not touching, and not touching…

Sherlock said nothing, just closed his eyes and arched up into the warm breath pooling high across his belly.

_You can do anything John. Have anything, take anything…_

But Sherlock didn't say that, because that wasn't what John wanted to hear.

"Oh god…"

What John Watson wanted was absolution. It didn't matter that he'd done exactly what his lover had asked, that there was not one thing Sherlock would change about what had happened in that moonlit room. What mattered to John was that he'd hurt the one person he meant never to hurt, and for that some part of him needed to pay penance.

And to ask forgiveness.

"Can I?"

So Sherlock would give him both.

"Please…"

But not yet.

John stared at the pulse in Sherlock's neck, counting. _Onetwo, onetwo, onetwo._ He looked at Sherlock's chest and counted there, too. He let his gaze travel everywhere, anywhere but to Sherlock's eyes. Then John looked at Sherlock's left hip.

Strike hard with a riding crop and it'll subtly flex. The stiff fiberglass will bend, curl just enough so that it'll leave a beautiful, terrible wound wrapping from the back of your lover's hip quite nearly to the front. The long, red wound left behind will look feverish, angry, and one will be tempted to touch the swollen flesh. John wanted very much to touch. He didn't.

Instead he looked at Sherlock's other hip, the second place he'd struck and this one made him close his eyes for a moment because he remembered that one more, he remembered thinking about that one more. And he remembered exactly what he'd been thinking.

_I want to strike harder. I want to see what he'll do._

And what his lover did was beautiful. John grunted and swung and struck and Sherlock had groaned high and breathy, exactly as if coming. He'd raised his chest off that bed and threw his head back, straining up toward the crop, toward the pain, every long muscle in him trembling with the need.

John had wanted more than anything to strike again and this time hold nothing back and with another grunt, a moan, he did but that third strike, across Sherlock's arse, was misaimed and didn't fully connect and that was just as well because already John felt bad, bad for his desire, bad for wanting, dear sweet god for wanting to do it again, hit him again…

"No, John."

John glanced up, into Sherlock's storm-cloud eyes, then looked down again, at Sherlock's hip and there on hands and knees he waited to be forgiven and the small and gentle warrior warred with the part of him that was not gentle and never small, the part that was as basic and primal and strong as pain and hate and love.

"Yes, John."

Again John looked up. Sherlock's face was shadows and angles yet…soft.

John's intuitive about Sherlock, he understands far more than he should but he didn't understand this. _No…yes…_

"Tell me," Sherlock said, the student teaching the teacher.

 _I don't know,_ John wanted to say. I don't know what you mean, what you want to give or deny or—

"I know you don't think I did anything wrong," John said, still on his damned hands and knees, still _not touching._ "But I did Sherlock." The good doctor's voice dropped to less than a whisper. "I wanted to hurt you. _I really wanted to hurt you."_

John stared at some mid-point on Sherlock's chest. At nothing. At his own fucking heart.

Enough was enough already.

Sherlock sat up, which made John rise reflexively, pulling away so that he didn't touch—

Sherlock slid long fingers around John's wrists. "Words. You asked for words, remember?"

Sherlock waited. Waited until the guilt in John's face cleared and John realized his lover wanted an actual answer.

"Yes."

Sherlock shifted, until they were both on their knees on that damned rug, fingers wound together now.

"What did I say John? Just before I hit you?"

John couldn't think for a moment because, honestly? He wanted to pull his hands out of Sherlock's hands. He didn't want Sherlock to touch him. He really, really didn't want Sherlock to touch him yet.

"You…um…"

Gaze again somewhere at the middle distance, John looked for words, found a few. "You said you wanted to hit me because I wanted you to do it. That my wanting made you want."

Sherlock let the echo of the words stroll around the room a couple times before he rose on his knees, until he was chest-to-chest with his lover and looking down at him. "No one else could have done what you did for me. What I wanted you to do for me. What I needed more than I need…breathing."

Sherlock dipped his chin, turned his head, breathed soft against John's mouth. "I needed it so you needed it, John. That's all. I needed everything you had to give and so you gave…everything."

The kiss was soft and warm. It made John close his eyes, the better to focus and feel. It went on for a good, long while, that kiss, first a bit softer, then harder, breathy and then with a smile.

Somewhere in the middle Sherlock went pliant, taking instead of giving and then, when John finally slid his hands up and around Sherlock's back, Sherlock gave instead of took.

"Please, John…"

Sherlock bared the side of his neck, inviting a bite and so he was bitten.

"My love," he sighed, fingers sliding into John's hair.

Sherlock pushed his hips against John's belly, stilled them, willing and waiting and _willing and waiting…_

John's hands slid low, fingertips danced gentle over two pretty, pretty wounds.

_"Oh god yes."_

A man in motion then, Sherlock rose, tugged, fell all in one grand arch, until he was on his knees again beside the bed, and he was _reaching_ , tugging John toward him until the good doctor was right where he'd been not twenty minutes before, right behind Sherlock, only now he was not quite hard so Sherlock grabbed his lover's hands and placed them _right there_ on his hips and only once John let his fingers trace gently over red skin did Sherlock reach down and start to stroke his own cock and with great and lavish fanfare start to moan.

John. Watson. Can. Not. Fucking. Resist. The. Moaning. Honest to god he didn't know what it was but the _sound_ of Sherlock, the drama, the passion, the silliness even, it didn't matter _why_ he moaned or how real it sounded or whether he was fully dressed or bare bones naked or god damn beating himself off like now, the sound of Sherlock sounding off was a siren's song for John's cock. Every. Damned. Time.

And so John was hard and thrusting against Sherlock arse before he knew he was hard and thrusting against Sherlock's arse.

"Mmmmm," he said, bending over to kiss then carefully bite at Sherlock's left hip, "Mmmmmm," he said, never having stopped, leaning over to lick at Sherlock's other hip. And then John straightened and licked his palm, swiped it over his cock, and did that and did that, again and again, until he was wet with himself and before he could even reach out Sherlock shoved his arse back, grunting, "Yes, yes, yes," as his lover spread him wide and pushed, then pushed a little more, until finally he was—

_"Jesus fucking Christ."_

—all the way in.

Sherlock tightened himself around John, writhed prettily, moaned louder.

"Jesus," John sighed again, then lost the will to say anything more as right there in that small place where their bodies joined, that really very small place where it seemed a billion nerve endings could happily be set fire, burning through thought and pain and doubts, John felt the fading of just a little guilt.

"Yessss."

John may have given up speaking, but Sherlock hadn't. "Harder John, please John."

Sherlock fisted his hands into the blankets, the leverage letting him shove back against John harder.

"Harder John, harder John, harder."

Mesmerized by the rolling, greedy push of Sherlock's body back against his, then fucking-hell-Jesus unbelievably mesmerized by the sight of his cock pulling in and out of that ridiculously rounded arse, John settled his hands tight around Sherlock's hips and just stopped moving.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," went Sherlock's litany as he pushed against John, as deep as lover's cock would go, then pulled away until that cock was almost all the way out and hello-and-hallelujah the feel of that, right at the rim, where there have to be a ridiculous number of nerve endings, hell, who needed a prostate when all that action _right there_ pretty much made Sherlock's hair stand on end and his mouth just go and go and go.

"Harder John, John, my John," and since Sherlock was going hell for leather where arse met cock John knew he meant something entirely different, so the good doctor dug one-two-three-four-all his fingertips into hips, into bruised flesh, and when Sherlock rose onto his hands, back arched hard, curved like a damned beautiful bow, and positively roared his pleasure, John had absolutely, positively no hope in hell. He started to come and come and if you deign to tell him it didn't go on for a year John Watson will damn well call you a liar.

* * *

Sunshine and bunny rabbits were just a small part of the aftermath of that day. There was still guilt, and confusion, and feelings that couldn't easily be named, and so there were still more words to say, most every last one of them for John.

Because it would take him years to be easy with some of what Sherlock needed from him, and this—giving pain, _wanting_ to—was the first and maybe the hardest. Guilt isn't always useful or sensible. Sure it may stop us from repeating an offense, but it can also cause the perception of offense where none's been given.

So, though they would do this again—and soon—there would always be words _somewhere._ Maybe before. Maybe during. Almost always after. But tonight they'd said almost all that needed saying.

Though there were still a few loose ends to tie up. Metaphorically speaking.

"I love you Sherlock."

Laying on their sides, at last tucked up under blankets, John curled tight against Sherlock's chest. He would sleep in less than a minute, but he was not asleep now, not just yet.

The reply took no time in coming, soft against the top of his head. "I love you John, I love you John, I love you John."

Why say once what three times can underscore, italicize, and bold-face?

Then, literally seconds before John fell asleep, the quiet coda, "Honestly, John, you could make a living at this if you ever get bored immunizing babies or giving old people enemas."

Well, there went _that._

John started laughing and didn't quite stop until long after Sherlock fell asleep.

END

_Reminder: This is the 'prequel,' more or less, to[Black and Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/748943/chapters/1397271). And there is a revisiting of the crop in [How to Kill John Watson, Easy Peasy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/513243/chapters/905268). Do please enjoy!_


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